


Of surface and symbol.

by dance4thedead



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Cancer, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Traumatic Brain Injury, loss of speech, muscle spasms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-04-22 16:25:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4842341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dance4thedead/pseuds/dance4thedead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian takes care of Ronald for the day, coming to terms with his own past in the process.</p>
<p>Based in the universe of Xbertyx's "<a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/308688">Al what are you hiding and related works.</a>"</p>
<p>Spoilers for chapter 39 of "<a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4767128">I'm going to lose him.</a>"</p>
<p>If you haven't read AWAYH and its two sequels, first off read that now. You need that in your life. Secondly, parts of this won't make too much sense without that knowledge. Proceed with that in mind :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Windsor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Xbertyx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xbertyx/gifts).
  * Inspired by [I'm going to lose him. (Sequel number 2 of Al, what are you hiding?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4767128) by [Xbertyx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xbertyx/pseuds/Xbertyx). 



>  
> 
> .....
> 
> Characters by  
>  Yana Toboso  
>    
>  Story by  
>  Xbertyx  
>    
>  Written by  
>  dance4thedead
> 
> .....

The moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium.  
—Oscar Wilde 

.....

Claude opened the door, hair wet, an unknotted necktie slung over the unironed white dress shirt he was wearing.

“Sebastian, come in,” he said, moving to admit him into the house. “I cannot express how grateful I am that you were willing to—”

“Claude, you don't have to thank me,” Sebastian quickly interrupted, shutting front door behind himself.

Claude glanced at his wrist watch and began to hastily fasten his tie with fumbling fingers, his typical composer gone weeks ago. “Have you eaten?” he asked as struggled with the tie. “Can I get you anything to drink? We have water, milk, orange juice—”

“Claude, I'm fine. You don't need to worry about me. If I need something, I assure you, I can get it myself,” Sebastian cringed internally at his poor choice of words. “What I meant was, should I require something, I know where to find it.”

“The procedures haven't changed from the time you came to assist Alan, except that recently Ronald has been experiencing seizures. There isn't much to be done should he have one, besides trying to provide him comfort. Although if you believe the episode is extreme, don't hesitate to call for an ambulance…”

Claude threw down his hands in defeat, the tie knotted in clumsy, misshaped budge. After taking a moment to collect himself, he passed the tail back through the mess of bights and loops to unravel it.

“Claude?”

Claude let out an irritated huff.

In two steps, Sebastian closed the gap between the two of them. “Please, allow me.”

Steady, practiced hands wound the silk around itself, threading it through the gaps into a perfect half Windsor. Sebastian's fist wrapped around the heart of the knot, sliding it to rest at Claude's throat. The points of the shirt collar were tugged into place. Perfect.

“There,” Sebastian said, almost without meaning to. He ran his fingers over the chest in front of him, smoothing out the wrinkles that he could.

Sebastian looked up, suddenly aware of his own actions. “My apologizes,” he mumbled, withdrawing his hands. “Adrian sends his regards to you and Ronald, as well as to Eric and Alan—I assume neither is present, seeing that you phoned me.”

“That would be correct. Alan had an appointment and Eric accompanied him,” Claude sighed, as if what he was about to say was difficult for some reason. “I was not expecting to work today, you should know. One of the other accountants fell ill last night, and I must cover his shift.”

“Then I'm glad I can be of assistance. My profession affords me such excessively long summers … the time between semesters actually grows to be quite tedious.”

Claude nodded. “He's upstairs. Follow me.”

......

Sebastian was led up the steps and into the bedroom on the left. There on the bed was Ronald, propped up against the head board.

Ronald must have had some way of sensing Claude's arrival, since without even turning his head, the young man began to whine softly for attention. Finally Claude came into his line of vision, planting a kiss on his temple, before grabbing the cloth from the nightstand and using it to wipe off the line of saliva dribbling down Ronald's chin. Ronald gave a small smile, then with great effort raised an arm so the fingertips touched against Claude's face.

A violent tremor wracked Ronald's body, making the arm jerk away. Claude sat down on the edge of the bed, catching both of Ronald's wrists in his palms. He held onto his lover tenderly through the convulsions, easing him through the pain with whispered encouragements.

The tremors subsided, the medication thankfully making the fits more sporadic than when Ronald first came out of the coma nearly eleven months ago.

The labored breathing gradually fell back into its habitual rhythm. Ronald sighed, his eyes conveying his gratitude.

Claude's phone buzzed in his pocket. Another glance at his watch and he already knew who the caller was.

“I need to leave for a little while. I shall return as soon as possible.”

Hands reached up, desperately scrambling to cling onto the hem of Claude's shirt, the front of his trousers … anything.

“Sebastian is here to look after you in my absence.”

“Hello, Ronald.”

Ronald looked from Sebastian and then back Claude with an expression conveying exactly how upset he was, then tightened his hold on the fabric of Claude's clothing.

“Ronald, I need to go.”

Ronald shook his head.

Claude spoke to Sebastian as he disengaged himself from his lover. “There's a button on the table right there that Ronald can use to summon you in an emergency, should you need to briefly step out of the room. There are some reading materials that shelf, if you're interested, and you're free to use anything else you find in the house.” He turned his attention back to Ronald, kissing the knuckles held. “I promise I won't be gone for very long.”

Claude rose to leave, turning at the door to steal a last glance at the lover and ex-lover he was leaving behind, before continuing to the stairs. The sound of the front door closing signaled his exit.


	2. Alice

It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.  
—Oscar Wilde 

.....

Sebastian did not “settle” for Adrian. Adrian surpassed Claude in every way; he was open, understanding, even comical when he needed to be. Adrian was a better lover and a better partner than Claude had ever been. Yet still, for irrational reasons, Sebastian couldn't help but wonder what his life would have been like if Claude had never broken up with him.

Claude was a good complement for him. They had entered into each others lives at a point at which both of them required the support of another in order to move on emotionally, even if one of them would never openly admit that fact to the other. But the sole difference between Ronald's relationship with Claude, and his relationship with Claude, was that Ronald would die for him, and for that reason, he was beaten, raped, shamed, and crippled. Were Sebastian faced with the same situation, he would have listened to Claude and tried to run away, but regardless, he would have been raped, shamed, crippled, and dead. Ronald was made of stronger stuff than he was.

Sebastian grabbed the chair from the corner of the room and dragged it to the side of the bed, sitting himself down in it. He and Ronald sat in silence for a good five minutes, having nothing to do. There was a chart on the table with direction on when Ronald should eat, how to fed him, and other medical task Sebastian would be responsible for in Claude's absence, but that wasn't for a few more hours. Sebastian didn't even have a newspaper to read. With so many responsibilities when class was in session—from correcting papers, to attending faculty meetings, to preparing materials for his lectures—it wasn't his custom to be idle. Wasted time was time that he could have spent doing more productive things.

Ronald huffed in irritation, pulling Sebastian out of his moment of self-pity. Who was he to complain about being forced into inactivity?

“I could read to you, if you'd like,” Sebastian asked softly, going over to the bookshelf. There a few music magazines, a couple of untouched classic paper backs, a hardcover statistics textbook stacked on top of an economics one, a photo album.

Hiding between the books were used cups and plates dried—crusty food still clinging to the sides of the containers. The bedroom was at level of clutter between _lived in_ and _messy_. Sebastian knew Claude well enough that this indicated he was overwhelmed, and not yet to the point at which his pride would allow him to ask for help.

Sebastian gathered the dishes from around the room and slid them in a stack on a space on bookshelf. It pained him to do so, but he knew Claude would be offended if he discovered someone had cleaned up after him.

A bedsheet was draped over what Sebastian suspected to be a stand alone mirror in the corner of the room. He lifted a corner of the material up, his curiosity getting the best of him. He didn't even hear the small noise of protest Ronald made when he yanked the sheet off of it entirely.

A sharp intake of breath. A sob. The hitches of Ronald's swollen throat as he kept crying. That's what Sebastian heard from behind him. He didn't need to turn around, he could see the boy in the mirror. And not only that. Sebastian saw what Ronald viewed in the mirror, and he understood why it had been covered. Reflected back at them was a man who barely resembled whom Ronald used to be.

He was thin, indecently thin. His eyes were no longer bright and blue, but dull and tinged with red. The nasogastric tube and tape affixing it his skin obstructed his face. His hair was at its factory setting, blonde. Identityless.

Sebastian felt tears threatening to leave him. He replaced the sheet over the mirror. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you,” he said, before quickly exiting to the bathroom across the hall to regain his composure in private, bothered by how much of himself he saw in Ronald, and how grateful he was that it was Ronald and not him, who was lying on the bed, clinging to life.

 


	3. Ghost

Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.  
—Oscar Wilde 

.......

There were no tissues set out in the bathroom, and there wasn't any toilet paper set out on the holder either. Claude really must be losing his touch, Sebastian thought absently, the back of his hand pressed to his own mouth to muffle his sobs. He only hoped that Ronald wouldn't be able to hear him from the bedroom.

He pulled the knob on the first drawer on the sink cabinets, searching quickly to avoid resorting to wiping his face on his shirt sleeve or the hand towel.

Deodorant, cotton swabs, razor, shaving cream, comb. Spare tooth brush and toothpaste, dental floss, lube, another comb, another razor, two containers of hair gel, more lube. Next drawer: nail clippers, electronic hair clipper, spare eyeglasses—the set of frames Claude had worn when they first met. Rolling papers. Petroleum jelly. Piercing cleaning solution. Cotton balls. A receipt to the Indian restaurant he knew Ronald and the rest often frequented. Eye drops. Loose change. Two ballpoint pens, a safety pin, and a weathered zippo. Cologne, mouthwash, band-aids. Bottom drawer: a box of diazepam tubes. A tube of hydrocortisone. Latex free gloves. An empty dime bag. Another dime bag containing a body piercing. The plastic wristband the hospital had put on Ronald when he was admitted that fateful night; Sebastian didn't know why Claude had chosen to keep that. An open ring box, empty.

The main cabinet under the sink was the only one remaining. Sebastian supposed that it would have been most logical to check that one first, only he wasn't thinking all that rationally at the moment.

Opening the cabinet drawer, Sebastian located a box of facial tissue, tearing the cover off of it and wiping the hot, shameful tears from his face. How irresponsible for him to leave Ronald unattended.

The tap was run and he splashed water onto his face, then more tissues were briskly used to dry off, resulting in little rolls of pilled tissue bits that he had to brush off.

Sebastian replaced the box under the sink, tucking it between two smaller boxes hidden behind the P-trap … two old forgotten boxes of hair dye. Curiosity over took him, and upon further inspection, he found the date stamped on it by the manufacturer marking it to be well over a year and a half old.

Ronald must have planned to get his signature look back, but plans had to be put on hold due to tragedy.

Tragedy was something Sebastian could relate to. His life had been a series of events in which the people he loved either died slowly of cancer or abandoned him when he needed them the most.

 _This is wrong. Stagnation is the enemy. Move on, move on, move on! Nothing good comes from being a teenager with emotional baggage the weight of a coffin. Sebastian, you have to listen to me and remem_ —No! Sebastian thought, gripping the edge of the sink for support as he drove the memory of the familiar voice out from his mind. Don't you speak to me … not now … not since I've buried you…

He was right, though, Sebastian knew. More than a decade gone and the words that person uttered in the last weeks of his life had never been anything other than correct.

Sebastian was never able to put that advice to use. The little things never seemed to matter when everyone else around him had lives that were complete shit and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. He truly was no help to anyone, at least not in a way that ever made a difference.

This much he could do for Ronald though, should he want it. Sebastian grabbed the hair dye boxes, one brown and one black, as well as the gloves from the drawer and the pot of petroleum jelly, hurrying back to the bedroom. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> diazepam = Valium 
> 
> This chapter was low key inspired by a Stanislavski acting exercise :)


	4. Vincent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vincent is not Ciel's father in this story.

Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope.  
—Oscar Wilde 

......

Vincent's mouth hung partly open in shock. When he had entered his bedroom, his boyfriend was sitting at the foot of the bed, waiting for him, wearing boxers and a fitted cotton undershirt—only there was a significant change to his typical appearance.

Vincent closed his mouth, his lips flipping up at the corners into a wry smile. “So you decided to shave your head?”

“Well,” Sebastian began with a slight frown, picking at the small pieces of his dark hair that still clung to his clothes “My original intention was to go completely bald, but I encountered certain … difficulties."

“You were afraid you were going to nick yourself?”

“It was a legitimate concern.”

The mattress dipped slightly as Vincent joined him on the bed. Sebastian lowed his head, allowing Vincent to run his fingers over the patchy buzz cut.

“And I thought I looked terrible.”

“I'm not arguing that,” Sebastian said, sighing into the other's touch. “But one bad self inflicted hair cut doesn't result in the me face planting on the floor because someone is too stubborn to use a walking cane”

“I'm seventeen, using a cane would make me feel like an old man.”

“You're unfathomably stubborn.”

Vincent laughed. “I thought that was one of my better qualities.”

The stroking ceased and Sebastian looked up, finding a dazed expression on Vincent's face. “What's wrong?”

“I can't remember what we were talking about.”

“My hair cut.”

“Oh, right. Sorry, my brain just—”

“I understand,” Sebastian said kindly.

“This really is god awful though,” Vincent mused, one hand returning to caress Sebastian while the other moved to slip off the knit beanie that had been a wardrobe stable for him since the surgery three weeks ago. “At least the hair they shaved off of me has grown back some. I could pass as a punk rocker if I wanted to.”

“Dream on.”

“Fine. Help me to the bathroom so I can fix the botched tragedy that's growing out from your scalp.”

“You're cruel to me.”

“You love me.”

“Most of the time.”

......

“Ronald, I'm sorry for leaving you alone,” Sebastian said, depositing the supplies in his hands on to the bedside table: gloves, petroleum jelly, two boxes of hair dye.

Ronald smiled slightly and shook his head. A silent “don't mention it.”

The bedside clock told that barely anytime had passed from the time he ran of the room like crying like the pathetic human he was. A minute or two at most, although it had felt like much longer.

Ronald held out a shaking hand to him and Sebastian took it in his own, feeling the gentle consoling squeeze the boy gave him through the frequent twitches in his muscles.

Why was he so weak? After everything life had thrown at him, shouldn't he have, at least to some extent, tough skin? Why was person on the bed, who was disabled, in agony, and several years younger than him the one comforting him? Forgiving him?

Sebastian sat on the edge of the bed, still holding onto Ronald's hand. His other hand managed to cross over, albeit not so gracefully, and grabbed one of the boxes of hair dye to present it to him.

Ronald looked up at him, with a expression Sebastian took for surprise. Sebastian hesitated for a moment, searching for the right words to say, stumbling over the syllables once he found them. “I thought perhaps … these were yours and…”

Ronald nodded eagerly, moving his head in a way that made his overgrown bangs sweep across his forehead.

Sebastian cracked a smile of his own. “There are a few more supplies I must gather then,” he said, placing Ronald hand back onto the comforter with care before he took off running around the house for the rest of the necessary materials.


	5. Rapunzel

We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.  
—Oscar Wilde 

......

Warm water was poured over Sebastian's head. Vincent was careful to keep it from getting in his eyes, something he was grateful for.

“You're so gentle with me,” Sebastian mussed, adjusting his hands on the hip bones in front of him to better support his boyfriend's weight. Why Vincent decided to use this method, instead of letting him rinse off in the shower didn't make the most sense rationally, but he presumed that the position he was in currently in—bent backwards over the bathroom sink—was not accidental.

“That's because you're a big baby,” Vincent said, adjusting the flow of water pouring from the faucet. “You're not too uncomfortable, are you?”

Sebastian held back the urge to say something cheeky. Of course he was uncomfortable; his shoulder blades were digging into the counter top and he was supporting his own neck over the sink because Vincent was either too tired or too cruel to do it for him.

“No.”

“Good.”

Vincent reached over him and grabbed the can of shaving cream from the line of toiletries that was pushed up against the mirror, dispensing a small amount into his hand.

“What are you doing?”

“You said you wanted to go bald, are you having second thoughts?”

“No.”

Vincent leaned forward to rub the shaving cream into his low cropped hair. Sebastian let out a gasp as the shift in weight put more pressure on his back.

“Are you uncomfortable now?” Vincent asked, feigning innocence.

“What do you think?”

“I think,” he said, pressing his torso against Sebastian's, “you enjoy where you are at the moment.”

“Hmm…”

Long, deft fingers went back up to work the shaving cream in, moving in small circles on Sebastian's scalp.

“Oh … Vin.”

“Yes?”

“Nothing … just don't stop.”

“So you do like it?”

In place of responding, Sebastian pushed his head back into Vincent's touch. Vincent stopped, turning the faucet on and rinsing his hands. Sebastian groaned low.

“Hush,” Vincent said, snatching Sebastian’s razor from the holder.

The hair was removed in small sections, the stubble sent down the drain, Sebastian closing his eyes as he indulged in the gentle caresses. Vincent began to slow as he was just finishing the other side of his head.

“Are feeling tired?” Sebastian asked, his concern genuine.

“A bit, but I'm better than I've been in ages.”

“That's good to hear.”

Vincent let the razor glide over the last patch of shaving cream. “So why do this?” he asked.

“Hmm?”

“Why go bald? You've never been bald, and it's not like you're losing your hair or anything.”

A shiver went through Sebastian as cool water was poured over his virgin skin to clear off the rest of the shaving cream.

“It doesn't matter.”

“But does.”

Vincent moved off him and took a seat on the lid of the toilet, clearly more exhausted than what he was letting on. Sebastian pushed himself back to standing and grabbed a towel from the rack.

“I was sick of long hair.”

“That's a lie.”

Sebastian dried himself roughly, the delicate skin not used to such harsh treatment.

“You did it for me, didn't you?”

The towel was folded in half and draped back on the rack.

Vincent let out a little laugh. “I appreciate the gesture, but you jumped the gun a little, you know. If the chemo makes me lose my hair, it's not due to start falling out until another week or two.”

“I'm just … scared. I've been scared for the past few months and I just wish I could do more for you than just—”

“Sebastian, don't worry. It's my hair that you might not see for a while, not me.”

“But it's not just hair.”

“No, you're right. It's not just hair.” Vincent smiled wide. “I have an idea.”

“Oh no.”

“Go out and get some hair dye and bleach. Something loud and hideous. I want highlights, lowlights, everything.”

“What? Why?”

“Lets make my hair so awful, neither of us will mind if I lose it.”

“I've never dyed hair before.”

“Don't worry, I'll teach you.”

“We're going to look absolutely dreadful in public,” Sebastian laughed.

“Who cares?”

“No one who matters, anyway.”

Sebastian helped him back to the bedroom, then put on proper clothing robbed from Vincent's closet over his own undershirt and boxers—dating someone close in height and weight had certain advantages. Before leaving he kissed him, as was their ritual.


	6. Gabriel

Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art. Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art.  
—Oscar Wilde 

......

Everything was quickly prepared, Sebastian not wanting to leave Ronald unattended for longer than absolutely necessary. Foil and a small plastic bowl from the kitchen, a worn towel and washcloth from the linen closet.

Ronald, once helped into a seated position, leaned back against Sebastian's chest. A piece of foil separated the upper portion of hair from the section to be dyed, and petroleum jelly was rubbed over the back of his neck, to where the towel hung over his shoulders.

Sebastian reached for the bowl of half prepared dye, stirring the goop into an even constancy with a gloved hand.

He started to work the dark brown dye into Ronald's damaged hair, the blonde strands thinner and duller than they used to be.

......

“God, that was good,” Sebastian whispered as Claude moved out from his spread thighs to flop onto the mattress next to him.

“God isn't here,” Claude mumbled, the smell of sex, weed, and alcohol still lingering on his breath.

“I'll keep that in mind.” Sebastian relaxed back into the sheets, or at least tried to. The old box springs felt terrible on his back, but it wasn't like he was spending the night. Then again, he didn't feel like moving yet either.

He stared at the popcorn ceiling, and without really thinking, he said “I don't believe in a god.”

“Neither do I.”

That surprised him a bit. Claude seemed, at least in the moments in which they weren't busy screwing each other's brains out, introspective. Almost … priest like? In retrospect, Sebastian realized how backwards that line of logic seemed, but right now, all he wanted to do was fill the awkward silence he created by starting down this topic. Damn.

“I use to. A long time ago, when I believed in the possibility of miracles,” he ended up saying.

He heard the sheets rustle as Claude turned to him. “I'm sorry that you were disappointed.”

His eyes stayed on the ceiling. “Sorry doesn't bring back the dead.”

.......

The door to his dorm was slightly ajar. Sebastian smiled, his roommate must have let Vincent in while he was in class.

Sure enough, his boyfriend was sitting on his bed, reading a magazine. His red, green, and blue color bombed hair framed his thin face, but the upside to the atrocity was that it took enough of the attention away from the scars on his scalp and forehead that he'd been leaving the beanie off.

Sebastian pressed a quick kiss on his lips. “Hey, sorry I couldn't come with you today.”

“That's okay.” The magazine was shut. “It was nice to catch up with Diedrich again.”

“Oh, how is he?”

“A right pain, as ever. Didn't let me live this down,” he said, pointing up at his bangs, laughing. His laughing quickly ceased, a more serious expression creeping onto his face.

“What is it?” Sebastian asked, worried.

“What remains of the tumor has had a partial response to the chemotherapy.”

Sebastian breathed out, relieved. “The chemo is working? That's … that's wonderful!”

Vincent smiled. “Indeed it is.”


	7. Demons

No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved.  
—Oscar Wilde 

......

Sebastian would always be the first one home from work. He'd start on dinner preparations early to hopefully get the smell of food permeating through Claude's flat. Claude would get back from the bank, then the two would warmly greet each other in the kitchen. They would eat (or Sebastian would guilt Claude into trying the meal he'd prepared, then they'd eat), talk, knock back a few drinks if that's what they were in the mood for. Claude would clear away the dishes and make sure they were washed and put away by the time Sebastian was finished grading papers and writing tomorrow's lesson plan at the table. They'd retire to the bedroom for sex, or movie and then sex, or if one one of them got impatient (which happened) sex during the movie. Sebastian couldn't count the number of times he came with a Danny Elfman score playing in the background.

What happened in between those steps varied each night, but the routine itself became the dependable constant both of them needed.

“Sebastian! You had me worried!”

Sebastian came out of his daze, eyes suddenly focusing on Claude. He was sitting on their bed, Claude holding his wrists. He hadn't even heard Claude come home.

“Why is there a police car outside? Was there … Sebastian?”

“I didn't make dinner for us tonight,” he said in a low, calm voice. “I'm sorry, we will have to order out.”

Claude reached out to touch his neck. “What is … ”

Sebastian inadvertently flinched as Claude's fingertips brushed against the ring of discolored bruising.

“What the—”

“Claude, please. I don't want you to panic. I'm quite all right.”

“Why then is a police car waiting outside?”

“I … I didn't want to be home alone.”

The hands fell limply from his wrists. “He found you,” Claude said in a trembling whisper. “He attacked you.”

“Claude—”

“FUCK HIM!”

A fist made sloppy contact with the wall, though without enough force to actually damage it.

“He should have come after me. ME! Only me … he was not supposed to harm anyone else.”

Claude's balance wavered, and after a moment of struggling to remain standing, he weakly lowered himself to the floor.

“Claude,” Sebastian said, slipping off the bed and crawling to his side.

“Don't touch me, damn you!” Claude shouted, swatting away the arm that had moved to rest on his shoulder. “Are you stupid? Stay far away from me!”

Sebastian put his arms around him, hugging him tightly. “You are not to blame for what happened. You are the victim here as well.”

“No, I am the causation! How selfish me to think that I could actually be … that I could actually have…”

“Claude, shut up. I love you, and loving someone back won't hurt them.”

Tears were leaking down his face. “You don't know how wrong you are.”

.............

Fingers in Ronald's hair, insuring the strands were coated thoroughly and careful not to miss the roots. This simple act was opening the flood gates to so many memories for him. He was tearing up again, silently this time. Ronald had his back to him, but it mattered little, really. There were only three people Sebastian hated to see him cry, and two of them were busy today and the last one was dead.

Sebastian carefully lifted him from the bed and carried him to the bathroom. Ronald was so light compared to Adrian. It seemed as if he was loosing weight everyday.

It seemed once again he was the lucky one between himself and Claude. His fiancé was healthy. He didn't have to worry about medical things, or Adrian dying on him anytime soon. He didn't know why that was the way the universe had conspired.

The hair dying process would be repeated with black dye after rinsing the brown dye out of his hair, finally returning Ronald to his signature, two-toned look.

..............

  
They had no dinner or sex that night. Neither had the appetite.

“Why?” Claude asked after finishing his blunt, lying next to him in bed. A long silence preceded and succeeded his question. 

Sebastian didn't know if there existed a correct way to answer him. The simple answer to why he had almost been killed that afternoon was because Claude's ex was a jealous, homicidal maniac. The simple answer to why Sebastian hadn't died was because the man didn't have the rope ready in his hands when he went to try to strangle him. That was all.

To formulate a more complete answer, he would have to think about how lucky he was that he got away. How certain he felt at that moment that he was going to die. How terrified he was, and how much he needed to scream and cry and be held and coddled and comforted, and how much of that he forced himself to keep hidden from the man lying beside him … for both their sakes.

Because if he allowed himself to lose it, it would just validate how god damn helpless they both were in the grand scheme of things.

But there were simply too many variables to account for in a complete answer of why bad things happened to undeserving people.

“I don't know why,” Sebastian replied, trying to hold himself together.

More silence.

“I told you before that I do not believe in a god,” Claude breathed out.

“You did.”

“I think … I think that there must be one.”

Sebastian was quiet for a moment. “Oh.”

“How else can you rationalize…” his voice broke, “how else can you rationalize why I am being punished?”

Sebastian paused. “I can't.” He was crying again. He was sure that Claude was too, but the lights were off and they both were careful to make sure that each sob that slipped out of from them was soundless.

“So what do we do? Do we pray?”

“It doesn't work.”

“We're just damned then.”

“Yes.”

“It isn't fair.”

“Of course it isn't.”

Claude couldn't muffle his cries anymore, and they broke out of him without his consent. “I didn't choose this life,” he sobbed, choking on tears. “I didn't ask to be a born a gay man. I didn't ask to have him hurt you. I'm sorry … I'm so sorry. I don't … why does … why did I …”

Sebastian rolled over, catching Claude's lips in a sloppy, anguished way. Letting go of his composer and crying into his mouth. It was too messy to be a passionate kiss, too soft to be anything but a reminder that he was there and that they were both still alive.

They separated, Sebastian turning back to lie on his back. Minutes passed, and finally the cries that wracked through their bodies grew less frequent.

Sebastian watched the ceiling fan circling above them. “I said before that I don't believe in a god … that doesn't mean I think there still isn't one. I just refuse to revere a deity who could be this cruel.”

The two of them lay there awake and silent for the rest of the night.


	8. Part one of two: How to break a man's heart (in reverse)...

From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor's craft is the type.  
—Oscar Wilde 

......

Fresh flowers were left on the fresh grave of Sebastian's mother before returned he to Edinburgh. Two yellow roses from the florist and handful of dandelions pulled from the ground—french marigolds were always her favorite, but she had died before the ones in her garden had come into bloom.

He had thought of calling ahead, but he had decided that it would be better to have the element of surprise on his side. He was also banking on Claude being a creature of habit.

Sure enough, that night Sebastian found him at one of their usual hang out spots, a hole-in-the-wall bar that featured a pretty skilled local cover band, one well worth listening to.

Claude was ordering drinks and had his back to him, but without even seeing his face, Sebastian felt his pulse quicken. It wasn't in his nature to fight for anything, much less something as selfish as the remnants of a broken relationship. But the time spent apart from the sullen man had taught him that if anything of his was worth fighting for, that was it.

He stepped forward, but just as he did, Claude turned and passed the drink in his hand to a flush faced young man with two-toned hair, blonde in the front and dyed jet black in the back.

Claude led the young man onto the dance floor, coaxing him into joining him in dance. Claude moved effortlessly and his partner awkwardly, but somehow with the elder guiding him, they managed to make it work.

The young man cursed as he tripped on himself, making a smile grace Claude's face. A faint one, but the expression was rare, and Sebastian recognized it from across the room.

The two swayed at a slightly off beat rhythm, the younger beginning to softly frot against Claude before something was whispered in his ear and their lips locked. Sebastian saw Claude's tongue slip into his partner's mouth, hand groping at his backside…

At that, Sebastian turned and left the bar, the night air cold on his skin. He had backed down. Of course he had.

And a box had never felt so heavy than in his pocket.

......

  
Not long after being attacked by Baldroy in the parking lot, Sebastian received a call that his mother's health was deteriorating. He decided to return home to spend what time they had left together.

He asked Claude to come with him. Claude asked him for a break up.

So this is how they found themselves, the two of them in Claude's bedroom with Sebastian's half filled suitcase between them, both silently daring the other to say the next word.

“I don't want to be alone,” Sebastian finally stated, his voice carefully level.

“Sadly, we cannot always get what we want. I trust that the rest of your belongs will be removed from my flat before you leave tomorrow for your mother's.”

“Bastard.”

“Pardon?”

“Yes. Yes, I will take my things with me. I suppose you think it's for the best.” A few more items were shoved into the suitcase before it was zipped and lifted off of the bed.

“Indeed.”

“You're wrong.”

“Only as much as you are. Good day, Mr. Michaelis.

Something in those cold words stung his heart. He turned at the door, too hurt to be bitter. “To you as well, Mr. Faustus.”

......

He had forgotten it was Vincent's birthday. It was easy to forget when he was around Claude. The man was subtle when it came to showing affection, but sometimes Sebastian would wake up on a Sunday morning and find their hands clasped together under the covers. And sometimes he would fall asleep in the middle of a movie, and the next morning he would find the VHS paused for him at the last scene he remembered.

He was grateful for the days Claude let him rant about work. He was grateful for the sex. He was grateful for Claude finally opening up to him.

They had found an understanding in each other, and for the first time in a while, they both felt like they had a place they were meant to belong.

......

Vincent had asked him not to, so he had respected his wishes. He had wanted to get Vin's initials inked on him … over his ribs, or on the inside of his ankle, or on the back of his hand … some place over bone so that it would hurt to get it done. He wanted the men from the gay club who picked him up for no stings attached sex to see those letters branded on him and wonder who that person was, what that person meant to him. Three years gone and not a day spent without thinking about him.

Especially today. The date on the beat up wall calendar hanging behind the bar matched the date Sebastian had wanted to have tattooed onto him. Not that he could forget the anniversary so easily.

He needed a distraction, liquor wasn't enough for him tonight. A fight or a quick lay, either would do. Sebastian downed the rest of his drink and walked over to the man who was sitting alone on a bar stool sipping a gin a tonic, and said…

“One might consider you handsome if such an awful scowl had not affixed itself to your face.”

 


	9. How to break a man's heart (in reverse, part two)...

No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style.  
—Oscar Wilde 

......

The staff greeted Sebastian with their usual pleasantries, already knowing that he didn't need directions to the room he was heading to.

He spotted Vincent's parents outside the door consoling each other. They waved him into the room without a more elaborate explanation than “he needs you.”

Sebastian found Vincent awake on the hospital bed, a weak half smile on his lips.

“I like your hair that color.”

“I haven't ever changed it,” Sebastian said as he dropped his book bag into an empty chair.

Vincent chuckled, making his frail body shake. “I like it better black than bald.”

Their hands met, Vincent's grip significantly weaker than what it used to be, but Sebastian had learned to not let that faze him.

“Vin, talk to me. Tell me what's wrong.”

“Why do you always have to think something's wrong?”

“Your mother is outside, crying.”

“Well, she gets that way.”

“Vin.”

“Hmm … kiss me first. Let me be selfish.”

“You're not ever selfish.”

Vincent laughed, weakly, and Sebastian leaned over, kissing him sweetly on the mouth. Their noses bumped. Vincent knew his boyfriend naturally tried to tip his head to the right, and Vincent always had to try to defy him.

Sebastian pulled away, the concern on his face aging him twenty years.

A sad smile was on Vincent's face. “You're going to want to sit down for this.”

“I'm fine, don't worry about me.”

“Sebastian.”

“Okay, I'll sit.” The bag was moved to the side and he plopped down into the vacated space. “What is it?”

A deep breath.

“My doctors and I have come to the conclusion that it's no longer beneficial for me to continue treatment.”

With that, the world came crashing down.

“What?” His nose started burning like he needed to cry, but he had forgotten how to. “I'm sorry … what are you talking about?”

“Ha, Sebby, you're sounding like me now.”

“I don't find that amusing in the least.” Sebastian shook his head. “How is this even possible? The chemo's been working—”

“No, it hasn't. It hasn't worked for a while,” he said, sadly.

“Wait … but you … I don't understand. Why lie?”

“Because … I didn't want you to be sad.”

_How can I not be when you're dead?_

“I … I prayed for you, you know.”

“I know, love.”

“And … I'll always love you.”

“No! You're young, you're beautiful, you're caring. You're going to find someone else.”

“You'll always have the biggest place in my heart, Vin.”

“That's a lie.”

“I never lie, my angel. At least not to you,” he vowed in solemn earnest.

Vincent laughed again. He always laughed in the face of the worst of things. “People change, and that's okay. But for now, this isn't goodbye. So if you have to cry, get it over with. I still have a bit more life left in me.”

“You're right, Vin, this isn't goodbye.”

......

“Lost?”

Sebastian almost jumped as he looked up from the printed schedule he was holding. A young man was in front of him, leaning against one of the clean white walls of the college hallway with a cocky grin spread over his face.

“Yes,” he said, laughing nervously to avoid looking into those gorgeous eyes. “A bit. Trying to find Professor Druitt's room. It says here the room number is—”

“One twenty five, but it's actually two twenty one. The chem lab's being renovated, so in the meantime, you geeks get shoved in with the bio dorks.”

“Oh…”

“Don't worry, us bio dorks don't mind sharing. Come on, I'll take you there.”

The schedule was folded and slipped back into his pocket. “Thanks. So, you're a sophomore?”

“Nope. Freshie. I just know the buildings and politics because of my family.” He raised his hand, flashing an heirloom ring with an unmistakable crest inscribed.

“You're a Phantomhive?!”

“Yeah, but keep that between us, okay? I'm Vincent. You?”

“I'm Michaelis. Sebastian Michaelis.”

“All right, Sebastian. Let me show you around. By the way, do you dance? My friend Diedrich has a party, and he needs some…”

In that moment, Sebastian knew that the next few years here would be quite marvelous.


	10. …and how he put it back together again.

All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. Those who read the symbol do so at their peril.  
—Oscar Wilde 

......

Sebastian thought for the longest time that Claude would never know the grief he felt from losing a lover. Now he realized he was the one who would never know Claude's grief—of losing a lover slowly.

The sound of the front door opening and then closing signaled Claude's return. Keys jangled as they were returned to a coat pocket and then footsteps sounded as he raced up the steps into the bedroom.

Claude was at Ronald's side in an instant, climbing on to their bed and pulling Ronald's shaking body into his arms.

“That was not too unbearably long, was it?” Claude asked tenderly, holding him to his chest. His shirt was getting wrinkled, but he paid it no mind.

Claude pulled away to look Ronald in the face, noticing only his red-rimmed eyes and drying tears on his face.

“My love, I didn't mean to make you cry. I'm so sorry for leaving you.”

Ronald looked up for him, smiling.

Sebastian let out a laugh from his place beside the bookshelf. Claude turned to look from Sebastian, and then back to his fiance, before finally realizing…

“You … your hair…” 

Claude ran his fingers through Ronald's still slightly damp locks. He carded through the short black strands that Sebastian must have shaved and colored back into the way Ronald used to have it styled. The way he looked when they first met. 

It seemed like so long ago, back before they were attacked. Before their lives fell apart and before their relationship changed from a two men who happened to fall for each other to patient and caregiver.

They seemed to be in a time all to themselves. Their fingers were interlaced to keep them united through Ronald's muscle spasms. The grin from one of the lovers, goofy and perfect at the same time, was too much and the other couldn't help but smile himself.

Tears soon over came Ronald. Bright happy tears. Claude chuckled, kissing him on the brow.

Sebastian ducked his head as he slipped out of the room and into the hallway.

“Wait!” called Claude. There were noises of hurried movement, before the door opened to reveal Claude, in near tears.

Sebastian blanked for a moment, not expecting him to be so emotional over such a small thing. “Claude, I should go. Adrian—”

“You've done something I've been incapable of. You've made him happy. He must … he must hate me now … for all the pain I've caused him,” Claude said, his voice breaking. 

“Claude, you idiot. I don't think it's possible for him to hate you. Look at him.” Sebastian held the door open. Ronald was looking at his reflection, glowing. “He loves you unconditionally, does he not? Something that strong cannot be compromised so easily.” Sebastian paused before adding, “And remember to let him know that you find him beautiful, no matter how his appearance and mind might change.”

“Of course,” Claude said, smiling. “Thank you. I could kiss you right now.”

“It's … it's just hair Claude. It really was nothing.” Sebastian turned and walked away. “It was nice to see you both smile, though. I wish you would more often.”  
Sebastian found himself alone at the base of the steps, with Claude at the top of the landing. He figured Claude likely missed his last few utterances, but he didn't feel like repeating himself.

He let himself out of the house, car keys jingling as he spun then around a finger idly. It was likely that Adrian would be in class still. That was good. Sebastian had tuna steaks marinating at home that he had to finishing preparing, as well as all the ingredients for some kind of chocolate pastry dessert. He didn't have a recipe in mind yet, but he was sure he could manage to come up with something.

His mom and Vincent were gone, Baldroy was in jail, Claude and Ronald were recovering together, Adrian would be coming home soon, and he had diner to make. Life goes on.

He noticed the black polish on one of his fingernails had chipped as he turned the key in the ignition, and it finally hit him that possibly all of the little things he had ever done might have made a difference.    

And for the first time in years, an enormous weight was lifted from him.

 

 

 

 

 _All art is quite useless._  
—Oscar Wilde

 

 


End file.
